


COLLECTION - One Shots

by Sarie_Fairy



Category: The X-Files
Genre: A lot of different scenes, Angst, F/M, Fun, Love, MSR, Sex, Smut, Tumblr Prompt, and genres, covering a lot of different things, some loving some funny some angsty some smutty, something for everyone - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2020-12-09 00:17:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 15,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20985680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarie_Fairy/pseuds/Sarie_Fairy
Summary: Kissing prompt for Tumblr Fictober 20192. A small, fleeting kiss - which is immediately followed by a passionate, hungry kiss.48. One person has to bend down in order to kiss their partner, who is standing on their tip-toes to reach their partner’s.Warning - this contains a Tipsy kissing trope :-)





	1. Scully to the Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kissing prompt for Tumblr Fictober 2019
> 
> 2\. A small, fleeting kiss - which is immediately followed by a passionate, hungry kiss.
> 
> 48\. One person has to bend down in order to kiss their partner, who is standing on their tip-toes to reach their partner’s.
> 
> Warning - this contains a Tipsy kissing trope :-)

There’s a bar not too far from the Hoover building that seems to have always been an ‘FBI’ bar. Just the place Agents go after work for a drink and to bond over difficult cases, or celebrate victories, or just for Thursday night drinks and half price pizza.

The two agents from the X-Files department weren’t found there too often, but when there were, it was always together.

That’s not to say that there weren’t other patrons from outside of the Bureau that would frequent the bar. There were. It was a pubic establishment after all.

Mulder had had to sidle up close to Scully a few times, to ward off unwanted attention. The FBI pool seemed to instinctively steer clear of both of them in that way, but it didn’t stop other unwitting men from trying it on, with Scully.

It took a while for Mulder to recognise when the attention was unwanted. Basically, _always_. Scully did not want to be ‘picked up’ in a bar, especially not one crowded with her colleagues, even less so, when Mulder was present.

She once told him ‘I can handle myself, but it does make it easier, if they think I’m with you.’ 

It wasn’t too frequent an occurrence, but of the many years they’d been going to that bar, it happened enough.

Sometimes it would just be enough that he returned from the bathroom or bar and stood next to her. Other times he’d put his arm around her. A couple of times a kiss to the forehead or cheek was deemed necessary by Mulder.

On this particular outing, they weren’t at their familiar bar. They were somewhere in the centre of the country, in the middle of nowhere. In a bar-cum-diner-cum-gift shop, attached to the motel they were staying at.

They’d had dinner and as the case was over, at least in this town, (Scully had some follow up forensics to do back in DC). So, they decided to have a drink at the bar. One beer in and Scully excused herself to the bathroom with the promise to buy another round on the way back. She left Mulder sitting on a bar stool at a cocktail table, in the dim light of the divey bar; pool balls cracking and the jute box playing as if it were 1985. 

She had been gone less that ten minutes. As she walked back from the bar, drinks in hand, she could see Mulder talking to someone. Or rather, someone talking at Mulder. She was a large, seemly very drunk, quite forward, woman. All denim ill fitting and an expanse of over tanned cleavage. She could see Mulder blushing and trying to stay as distant from her as his seat would allow.

Scully paused for just a moment, grinning to herself at the flipped circumstances. She hadn’t thought of going over and rescuing him, just merely returning to the table to see what that elicited. That is until the woman made a grab for Mulder’s crotch. Mulder jumped off his stool and took a few steps backwards, putting his hand up in defence.

Scully picked up the pace. Mulder had managed to dodge the woman but seemed at a loss as to what to do next.

The courage of the wine with dinner, and the beer she’d just consumed was giving her a boldness she may otherwise never had mustered. She strode her way over, quickly placing their drinks on the table. She wrapped her arms around his waist, from the side, tucking herself under his arm. He looked down to her, the shock quickly replaced by and small smirk. He draped his arm around her shoulders. She stood on her tippy toes and reached her face up towards his. As a natural reaction to her, he bent his neck down so she could kiss him. It wasn’t long, but it was all lips and pressure and lingered long enough that the woman standing in front of them began to step side to side and loudly clear her throat.

They broke apart and Mulder grinned into one corner of his mouth and gave his head a twist to the side. He was impressed.

“So, um… darling, … everything ok?” Scully said, a little too awkwardly.

“Ah, yeah.” He answered. “It is now.” He added.

“So, this your girlfriend or somethin’?” The woman asked brashly, eying Scully up and down. “Or’d she just pick you up?”

“Yeah, she’s my girlfriend.” Mulder said, turning away from the woman as he spoke to look back down at Scully, who looked completely comfortable in his embrace.

“That’s right Poopy Head.” She teased and lent back up to him on her tippy toes. And gave him a quick peck.

They were having fun.

“It sure is Honey Bunch.” He grinned as he twisted her from under his arm, so she was in front of him. Her hands on his hips, his falling around her shoulders. He returned her peck. 

“Oh, for fuck sake. You two make me sick”, the woman spat as she stormed off.

They didn’t react to her departure. Just briefly pulled back from one another, mirroring each other’s delighted expressions.

_‘Poopy Head,’_ she mouthed.

_‘Honey Bunch’,_ he mouthed in return.

Their faces grew closer again, their expressions turning from playful to sincere.

His hands moved to cup her jaw as she closed her eyes. His eyes closed too as their lips met once again. This time their lips moved over one another. Exploring. Their mouths opened in unison and Mulder caressed her bottom lip with his tongue. Scully’s tongue advance to meet his. Her hands moved to his face as she deepened their union. Their tongues circled and their lips crushed together. Small moans escaping, only to be swallowed.

Their hands were stroking cheeks and their bodies had moved closer. She found his bottom lip and gently put pressure there with her teeth, before drawing it into her mouth. He moaned again and pushed his tongue deeper, her mouth opening wider. 

Had it been a minute, or five? Or perhaps an eternity. 

Eventually, Scully gently broke away. Her hands returning to his waist. She smiled up at him once more. His hands moved around her shoulders and he returned her smile.

“I think we lost her.” She said with a smirk.

Mulder took a token glance around.

“Yeah, we did.” He replied. “You’re good at this Scully.” He said with a nod, as he wiggled his eye brows at her. “I might have to get you to do that again sometime.”

She wasn’t entirely sure what he was referring to.


	2. Undercover Classes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of tropey fun.  
Sometime in season 6 - after Arcadia

“Ok, stand facing one another and hold hands.” The instructor said.

Mulder held out his hands, and Scully took them.

“I don’t know why this is necessary.” She whispered across to him.

“You heard Skinner, Scully. We have to be ‘believably’ in love.” He smiled, closed his eyes and turned his face skyward as he said ‘love’.

“Ok, but we’ve been undercover before. As a married couple. Surely that gives us a pass from this, ‘acting class’, whatever….” She said in a hush, stopping as the instructor began to speak again.

“Now, in a moment, I’m going to go around the room and ask you to tell me your favourite physical attribute of your partner. Remember, this is to be done ‘in character’, so take some time to look at each other, touch each other, explore. Remember to communicate. The expectation here, as you know by agreeing to this assignment, is that you will have to be somewhat intimate with one another. So, in the safely of this room, get to know each other physically.” She was circling the room as she spoke. Making eye contact with each of the agents as she went. “Another very important tip when undercover, stay as close to the truth, without revealing your cover, as possible. It will make it easier to stay in character. Say what is _your_ favourite thing about your partner. This can be truthful to you.”

“Yes, Scully, but as I recall, you practically flinched every time I touched you. This assignment is dangerous and if the suspects don’t believe that we are a true couple and have been for a while, we could get ourselves, and everyone in this room in trouble.”

“I didn’t flinch.” She frowned at him.

“You did!” He said, incredulous.

“Ok, touch me, Mulder. I promise not to flinch.” Scully said this as she glanced around the room.

Four other FBI Agent ‘couples’ were in varying stages of exploration. She noticed, in disbelief that two agents were kissing.

She took a deep breath, grabbed Mulders hand a put it on her waist. He looked down at his hand and back to her face. She was biting her lip.

He reached down to her and swiped his thumb gently across her mouth so that her teeth released her lip.

“Your lips Scully. That’s my favourite.” He smiled at her. His thumb swiping back again.

She shuddered a breath.

“You? Your favourite physical attribute of mine, Scully?”

She licked her lips.

“And remember, be honest.” He was grinning at her. “And you can use your hands.” He nodded for emphasis, smiling again.

A smirk crossed her face, before disappearing.

“What?” he asked, question her look.

“Um, honestly?” She asked shyly.

“Ah-ha,” he nodded.

“My favourite….” She said, putting a hand on his stomach. She began to walk around him, trailing her hand. She traced his stomach, his waist and then when she was behind him, dipped her hand so she caressed his arse. He jumped slightly. She laughed. “You flinched!” she grinned.

“A little warning Scully!” He managed. Smiling himself.

“You told me to use my hands!” She smirked. She was back in front of him now, her hands resting at his waist.

“I did, yes…. But I now only think it fair that I get to really experience my favourite part of you.” He said as a hand came up to the side of her face, cupping her jaw. He bent his neck and tilted his head to the side. His lips parted slightly, and he noticed hers did to, as she closed her eyes.

His lips pressed to hers. Her lips moved at the sensation and her other hand reach up to hold the back of his neck. She was the first to slip her tongue out of her mouth and lick across his bottom lip. He responded by pushing his tongue into her mouth and she opened for him. He licked at her tongue. Swirled it around hers. Their lips still connected. Their heads moved in unison, tilting to the opposite side as the kiss deepened. Mulder’s other hand moved to the other side of her face. A small moan escaped her lips. He smiled whilst kissing, breaking contact slightly. She smiled too. They pulled away slowly. Still grinning at one another. Their eyes locked in a gaze. They were still holding onto one another, beginning to move back together…

“Great job you two. Very convincing.” The instructor said, standing right next to them. She slapped them both on the shoulder. “Keep up the good work.” She finished, as she wandered off to the next couple.

Mulder and Scully looked at one another, not able to suppress a laugh.

Scully grinned again.

“I might change mine.” She said, biting her lip again. “Perhaps, my favourite part is…. your tongue.”

“Oh.” Said Mulder. “Just perhaps? Do you want to try it again, kissing, just to be sure….?” He stated, in a mock serious tone.

“Hmmm, might be for the best.” She said, copying his inflection.


	3. Skinner makes a move on Scully

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from @admiralty-xfd 
> 
> **Prompt: _Skinner makes a move on Scully... in front of Mulder_**

They were at the local bar. Local to the Hoover building. A sea of celebrating FBI agents. They’d just solved a big case. Caught and apprehended a pair of serial killers. Brothers working together. The close relationship of the suspects had been making the forensics a little harder to quantify.

Scully and, by way of her, her partner Mulder, had been asked to join the case. Her medical qualifications being put to use. A few significant findings during two autopsies she’d performed, had cracked the case wide opened.

Deservedly, she was getting a lot of tonight’s attention. Much of it coming from Assistant Director Walter Skinner, who had the brainwave to bring her onto the case. The significant pat on the back he’d received from the guy ‘upstairs’ he was now paying forward to Scully.

Mulder was at the bar getting another round of drinks for himself, Skinner and Scully. They’d all been at the bar a while and had had a fair amount to drink already. He’d decided to order some fries and buffalo wings so they wouldn’t get too drunk or hung over.

When he returned to the booth, he found Skinner and Scully sitting very close, now on the same side. That was not how he left them. Skinner was leaning in, as was she. She suddenly threw her head back and laughed. Skinner grinned. It was a rare thing. A Scully Laugh. Something that Mulder tried very hard to generate, often with little success. He tried to tell himself it was only because she was tipsy.

He sat down opposite. Put their drinks in front of them.

“You know Dana, if I were younger….” He trailed off. Grinning at her. Taking a gulp of his sixth, maybe seventh beer. “You are exactly my type of woman.”

Her cheeks flushed.

“Is that so…” she said. Downing her drink too.

Mulder was confused. What was going on?

Clearly sitting down and sliding their drinks to them did not announce his presence.

He cleared his throat.

Skinner turned to Mulder.

“She’s remarkable, Mulder. Don’t you think?” He smiled at Mulder as he spoke before turning back to Scully and putting his hand over hers, squeezing it.

“Ah, yeah, of course.” Mulder said slowly.

“Beautiful too.” Skinner continued.

Mulder scoffed. Looked over to Scully, waiting for her to sock him one. But Scully blushed, and put her hand on top of Skinner’s, that was still on top of her other hand.

She then told him sincerely, “Thank you.”

“Like I said, if I were years younger, and not your boss….” He trailed off his thought, taking another drink.

Scully blushed again, smiled at him. A giggle…. She took one of her hands back and drank again.

To Mulder they were both clearly tipsy, more than a little bit, but both so obviously enjoying one another’s attention. It unnerved him.

“Well, honestly, up until I joined the FBI, you would have entirely fit the bill of my type…..” She said to him.

Mulder furrowed his brow. Looked back and forth between them. Looked around for the candid camera.

“But I had to swear off anyone I work with, who was older, or my superior.” She continued, a devilish look in her eyes. “So that entirely rules you out.” She gave him a flirty stare as she took another gulp.

“Is that right?” Skinner said. Clearly pleased with this information. “Interesting.” He looked lost in thought for a moment before continuing. “Well perhaps in another life Dana….” He blushed then and quickly stood. “Well, Agents. It’s been real. But I have to leave before I embarrass myself any further.”

Skinner offered his hand to Mulder to shake. Mulder obliged.

He then leant down and kissed Scully, not quite on her mouth. Kind of the corner of her mouth. Aiming for her cheek but maybe purposely missing a little. Longer than a peck. He moved his head back a little. Spoke to her with his face close.

“You did great kiddo. Really great.” He cupped her cheek, nodded at her, then at Mulder, turned and disappeared.

Scully watched him leave. A coy look across her face.

She turned back to Mulder. Saw the look on his face.

“What?” She asked and then answered. “It was flattering. That’s all.”

“Ok.” Mulder said, sulkily.

“Mulder….” Scully said, a grin spreading across her lips. “Are you jealous…?”

“No!….” Clearly this was untrue so he continued. “Um… I don’t know… Maybe.” He admitted and took a drink from his beer.

“Aw, Mulder, I’m sure if Skinner was that way inclined, he’d have definitely said you’d have been his type too.” She was grinning at him as she spoke.

“Scully. I’m not jealous of _you_…. ” He looked at her, suspected she was teasing him.

“I know.” She smirked as she got up and moved over to his side of the bench. She slid herself in next to him, looped her arm around his as she brought his upper arm into a hug.

“Why should you be jealous of someone paying me a little attention?” She questioned, as the food was put in front of them.

She looked at Mulder and grabbed a fry.

“You ordered this?” She asked and he nodded. “Thank you.” She said with a fry still in her mouth as she went for a wing.

“It was more the way you reacted to him.” He said, continuing on from before. “Do you like Skinner? Is he really your type?”

“Historically….. probably…. yes, he would have been.” She said, a little tentatively.

That is not the answer Mulder wanted to hear.

She laughed at the look on his face.

“Mulder, why do you look so crushed?” She moved closer to him patted his hand in mock sympathy.

“It’s not as if you…” She stopped when she caught his facial expression then….

“What….?” She asked.

“I think all those things too. That Skinner said of you…. “

“You are amazing.

“And beautiful.” He told her shyly.

“You think that?” She said, in surprise.

“Yeah, I do.” He said as a flush crossed his cheeks.

“And, would you want to go out with me in another life too?” She teased.

“Scully….” He bit his lip. “I want to go out with you in _this_ life….” He said, his gaze never losing hers.

“Oh.” She said. The grin falling from her features, replaced with a pink hue and a quickening of her breath.

“Mulder. I had terrible taste in men. I had such a bad run. I said that Skinner would have been my type. Back when my type was actually no good for me.”

She took his hand off the table. Held it in hers.

“I have a different type now, I think…”

“Really?”, he queried.

“Ah ha” she said as she slid her other hand down to rest it at the top of his thigh.

“And what type would that be?” He asked, turning side on to face her.

“Um…. Tall,” she looked behind her. No one was paying them any mind, and they were mostly hidden in their booth, so she kissed his cheek. “Dark…”, she continued as running her finger through his dark hair before kissing his other cheek. “Brilliant….” Her lips touched his then. Just brushed them.

“Yeah…?” he said, encouraging her to go on.

“And very,” another peck to his lips, her hand falling to his cheek, “very,” her lips captured his bottom lip and she sucked before releasing him. “….Sexy.” She finished.

He brought both of his hands to her cheeks. Crashed his lips against hers. Their mouths opened and tongues met.

The kiss was fevered and passionate as their heads tilted to the side and the kiss deepened. Their lips were gliding across one another, slippering tongues circling. Hands caressing cheeks.

They finally pulled back from one another. Swollen lips and heaving breaths.

“But, I do work with him…. “ She whispered in a mock concerned tone. “So, I’m not sure what to do….”

“I think”, he said, pushing his lips to her between words, “you should talk to him.” Another kiss. “Maybe he likes you too.” He sucked on her bottom lip, “And you could work out,” another kiss, his tongue pushed inside for a moment before breaking away, “how to move forward…. _together_….”

“Hmmm, I like that idea.” She said, her eyes closed, her face embraced in his hands.

“I’ll give him a call,” she said dreamily, Looking at him now. “See what he’s up to tomorrow night.”

“Sounds like a plan. You two could talk and…. who know what else might come up…” He said kissing her cheek.

“Yeah.” She replied. “But now, I’ve had too much to drink. So, I’m going to get a taxi.”

“Good idea.”

He kissed her again. Lingered. Whispered. “He’d love to see you tomorrow night, Scully. To talk about this.”

“Ok.” She smiled at him. Pressing her lips to his one last time before wriggling out of the booth.

“Night, Scully.”

“Night, Mulder.”

She walked away. Looked back at him and smiled. He mirrored her grin.

He looked forward to tomorrow night.

To the rest of his life.


	4. Body Language

There’s something so intimate about what the body will tell, before anything is said out loud.

A person’s feet will point in the direction of someone they’re interested in.

If an individual likes somebody, they lean in when the other speaks.

They stare. Sometimes get caught staring. Perhaps even gazing.

When they look, they take in the whole face. The cheeks, the forehead, the jaw, the lips. Perhaps linger there, on the lips… A rosy pink full bottom lip, or a perfect cerise cupids pout.

They touch. Casual touching, it’s called. Could be interrupted as necessary. A brush of fingers, to gain attention. A hand to the small of the back, to guide that person, just that one person, out of a room. Another hand stoking down a bicep to take them with you. Hands clasping in comfort by bedsides and gravesides. Consoling hugs, holding on forever.

Fingers may glide over skin and through hair, seeking damage obviously not there.

Baseball lessons, that clearly would have taught better technique yelling from the sidelines, become a body embraced, a body curved into.

They will sit close. Two people who are attracted to one another; in boring FBI meetings, in cafes and airports. Bodies will be drawn together.

Too close, on a worn-out leather sofa, late one Friday night, after a long week and a casual invitation. Too close; bodies giving in to an unspoken desire to be near. To connect.

Their bodies know what they won’t yet admit. Their hearts know too.

Pinky fingers will brush under a shared blanket, not necessary for the warm night. Fingers become hands, hands become other safe places to caress. The voices on the film will drown out a silence that would force them to acknowledge what was happening.

Bodies will lean in, feel heat, need touch. Hands will wander and heads will rest in nooks. Lips will press onto foreheads and arms will sneak around waists. Legs will tangle and breathing will increase. Plotlines of movies will be neglected, and eyes will close.

Safe places become dangerous, as hand run over a growing hardness and fingers seek bare skin. Move up under garments and brush against breasts. Faces will tilt and lips will find lips.

No longer able to hide in the dance between body and mind. Between yearning and fulfilment.

Yearning will give way and clothes will be discarded. Hot wet mouths will locate nipples and hands will run through hair. Hard will meet soft; warm and slippery and snug. 

Bodies will join and moans will combine. Rhythms evoked, as bodies erupt.

Their bodily vocabulary will turn from fleeting prose to a myriad of poetry, forcing them to finally acknowledge what they both already knew.


	5. Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Melissa died. This is just sad. Sorry.

Her heart hurt. The icy claws of grief gripped at it. Dug in and squeezed. 

She marveled again how anguish could tangibly manifest where her autonomic nervous system clinically should have forbidden it; visceral pain present due to physical injury or illness. She felt this though. Inside the cage of her chest, and to the left.

Did she tell her she loved her? _No._ She told her she was scared. Wanted her to come over. Beckoned her to her death.

Did she know how much she loved her? Did she know that every time she had scoffed at her sister’s cosmic view on the world, that there was another truth? That Dana was in awe of her. In awe of her strength and kindness and compassion and ease with which she moved through the world. Why on Earth had she never told her that?

Why had she not revealed to the other part of herself her true feelings? Her astonishment at Melissa’s calm confidence in telling their father that she had no interest in going to college. That she was following her _bliss_ and letting that lead her. That even though Dana was consider the smartest child, she secretly knew it was Melissa. Missy understood the world and how it worked and her place in it, in a way Dana feared she never would. Why had she never told her?

Doctor Dana and Mystic Missy. Two such contradictory souls. So perfectly imperfect together. She was the only person that could turn Dana’s doubts into exciting adventures to be uncovered. Her fears, into possibilities. And now she was gone.

Why did she never tell her, that it was taking a little piece of Melissa’s strength, that lead her to the FBI and away from a career in medicine? That had she not borrowed that strength, she would be living out a life for her father. And now he was dead and not here to witness it anyway.

Melissa was her rudder, even when they were apart. She hadn’t really understood before, that a piece of her mind would grab at her, at what Missy would do or think or feel or say. It crashed down on her now though, stabbed her acutely the moment Melissa’s heart beat for the last time. 

Gone.

Missy was gone. Their combined memories only hers now. Sitting alone facing the precisely made bed in the semi darkness, thoughts of disagreements they’d had when a shared childhood memory was recalled differently, floated across her mind. _No, you were definitely wearing my new purple dress, that I hadn’t even taken the tags off of yet, Dana, remember?_ Missy had teased playfully one Christmas eve when they would sit up together under the lights of the tree, after midnight, when nothing was stirring. _No,_ she’d countered, _I wanted that one, and you told me ‘no’, so I took your other favourite, the navy blue taffeta one, with the bubble skirt…._ No way to ever know if it was really blue, or purple… Dana would win them all now by default. No counter to her memories.

What of the ones Melissa would bring up that were buried so deep in her brain she had all but forgotten? Gone but for the reminder… Gone forever now.

Aunty Missy gone. Aunty, to her unborn children.

Someone to help rein in her brothers. Gone.

Someone to help look after Mom, _later_, gone.

Someone to grow old with. The map of her future completely altered. Erased. A future she didn’t even know she’d counted on. Gone.

All the possibilities inside of her beautiful mind and giving soul. Gone.

She was already afraid of when she would forget the sound of her voice, and the exact smell of her completely; like she had her father. Time heals all wounds, people would say. No, time just moves you further away. Further from the last time you spoke or touched, or your hearts were beating on this Earth together. Time was a thief, not a healer.

…

She felt him enter the room. Crouch beside her and lean in. It only struck her then how similar they were. Their intuition and blinding belief. Their faith and optimism. His warmth drew her in. They’d both lost so much. But they had each other. She could let herself go now. Gone for a moment herself. Held together in his embrace.


	6. The Rules We Make

Her Father had been a Navy captain. When she was growing up, he’d be away at sea for months at a time. When he returned home, he’d run his household the way he ran his ships. He also expected his four children to fall into line, just as the officers under him did. For the most part, his first and third child, obliged. (His eldest eventually following in footsteps, joining the navy himself.)

Child number three, Dana, became a doctor. She did this because she was smart, because she could and because she wanted to impress her father.

She felt she’d confounded him though, when she didn’t pursue a career in medicine, instead opting for something that interested her; becoming an Agent with the FBI.

Upon his death she still felt the sting of his disappointment in her.

It would be easy to conclude that her relationship with her father informed her taste in men. She liked men in authority. She craved the approval.

Any of the significant relationships of her adult life at least one of these three things were present, perhaps all. The men had some kind of authority over her, they were significantly older, and, whether this was part of her type or just because of proximity, she either worked with them or they were part of the institution she was studying at.

She didn’t like this about herself. She was a feminist and liked to think she was fiercely independent. She had trouble reconciling this dichotomous part to her character.

She was single when she first entered the FBI and she made a promise to herself not to date anyone from work. Especially not someone who had authority over her, or who was much older.

…

She had a crush on him. Had for the longest time. Perhaps from the moment he told her the truth on a raining night in Bellefleur, on their first assignment six years ago.

He wasn’t her superior. Although he acted that way sometimes, and early in their working relationship she herself was even a little confused as to who was calling the shots.

He was only two and a half years older than her. So definitely didn’t fall under the ‘significantly older’ category she was determined to not fall into again.

He was, however, a work colleague, so that ruled him.

Ruled him out under the boundaries she’d set for herself. Her firm rules she was determined to stick to.

…

He was a rule breaker. A passionate seeker of the truth. And she, she _had_ broken rules. She’d broken them for _him_. Many times, broken the rules for him. Did it without question. Lied, fled, held in contempt of congress, broke laws…

Maybe that would be her loophole. On that warm, tipsy Friday night. Beers on his sofa, a movie being ignored in the back ground, him insisting on rubbing her feet, telling her he was proficient in reflexology and could rid her of her headache. Telling her there was a lot she didn’t know about him, wiggling his eyebrows as she arched hers.

Maybe… If _he_ wanted her, if _he_ wanted this to happen… maybe the rule could be broken. 

Breaking rules for _him._ That was kind of her thing...


	7. Lazy Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the Tumblr prompt list - "Kiss Prompts for Writers and Artists", lovely @frangipanidownunder asked for 4. **Lazy Kiss**

Morning cracked through the fan of his lashes, splayed across his heavy sleep laden lids. The night before still lingered in his consciousness and on the dried sex slick and sweat, salty on his skin. The other body that contributed to the mix; heavy on the mattress beside him. Breath telling of her continued slumber.

He took advantage of that place between the secrets of the night before and the upspoken blur of the morning after. Between bodies flopping hard against the bed, heads on pillows, limbs a tangle and chests panting with release and a need for air. Where the bookend to Scully climbing into his bed perhaps wasn’t yet established. Took advantage and pulled his arms, still wrapped around her waist, in. The bare skin of her warm, smooth backside firm against his groin.

Her breathing gently huffed its way from sleep to semi-consciousness, and she did not stiffen. Did not protest as his hand snaked its way to her breast, his palm covering her. She made room for his fingers to push and pull her nipple as she stretched, curving her spine and pressing her arse more resolutely into his morning erection. Her back melted onto his muscular torso when soft lips kissed the curve at the juncture of her shoulder and her neck.

She lazily turned in his arms after his hips had gently bump up against her; an invitation. She rolled onto her back, another stretch forced through her muscles as she drew her arms above her head. She twisted her face towards his as the last bit of the stretch reached the tips of her fingers. Her arms relaxed, flopping and draping over his, now across her ribs, just under her bust. He knew what he was doing when he leaned in, taking the lead and hovering his mouth in front of hers. _Her move._ Just half an inch - then last night could roll into today. Into forever, he hoped.

With eyes half-closed, and without acknowledging him completely, she touched her lips to his. Their eyes sunk closed and their jaws opened. Mouths pressed closer. A kiss. A slow, languid counter to the fever of the night before. The frenzied tearing and grinding and slapping of bodies. Of fast, bruising kisses and fingernails marking flesh, to hang on. To hang on whilst ecstasy ripped through each of them. To hang onto the intimacy for as long as possible, in case it would be lost forever with the morning light.

Fingers traced soft skin and hands gently kneaded, in time with the leisurely strokes of their tongues, sliding over. She rolled into him and their kiss deepened, their tongues retreating in moments so their lips could meet and slip together, before opening again in welcome. The pace remained dreamy as hands shifted to hold onto jaws and napes. She sucked his bottom lips between her teeth and tenderly bit down before sucking him back in. He held her jaw firmly and licked her mouth, over her lips ever so slowly, tracing them, drawing a shudder and a moan from within her. Bodies began a tangle and heat sought out heat. Inched closer together, in a crush.

They stopped midway. Drew back and looked. Took one another in. His hair mussed and cheeks pink. Her bee-stung lips, ruby red and swollen with the graze from his stubble.

“Hi,” she grinned, sheepishly. About last night, dancing in her eyes.

“Hi,” he smiled, about this morning, dancing in his.


	8. Yes, but it’s...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Posting this as I wrote it in one of @frangipanidownunder writing workshops a few months back and hadn’t blogged it then. I little post Never Again dabble.

“Yes, but it’s…” hung in the air between them.

Ever since Samantha went missing, was _taken_, Mulder would put himself at the centre of things. _His _sister was missing - it was more _that_, in his 12-year-old mind, than his parents lost a child. He didn’t understand this about himself until his own study into psychology. All that really meant though, was that he understood it, that that part of his behaviour came from childhood trauma. He would get reminded from time to time though, that he was not the subject of all things. Spending time with Mrs Scully, during Scully’s abducted, was one such reminder.

With her sitting across the desk from him, the damage on her face evident and his unfinished sentence suspended between them, unaccepted and therefore thrown back at him, he was forced into a new understanding. _She_ had been through something, _her _ordeal. It made him realised he was being a fucking arsehole.

_Not everything is about you, Mulder. This is my life._

“I’m sorry,” he said into the air that had settled thick over his desk, “what is it … about… then?”

_Not a fucking desk._

She was broken from her reverie. Looked up to him.

“I needed to just … get away, Mulder. From…”

“Me?” He offered.

In the space and time she used to respond, he took her in. Her beauty radiating out from under the Monet colour palette of bruises beginning to come into full bloom across her face. The crimson blood dried the same hue as her berry lips.

“No … not really. From … _myself_, I think …”

He wanted to ask her; wants to know… Tried to look at her hospital chart to find out the breadth of what happened to her. Happened _to_ her. Also, what _she_ did… Did she…? Her chart wasn’t there, though. Mysteriously vacant from its sleeve at the end of her bed when he went for the obligatory, my-partner-is-down, hospital run. 

“Did you?” He tries.

“What?” She asked, having slipped back into her contemplation.

“Get away,” he says slowly, “…from yourself?”

A dangerous smile hints at the corners of her lips. It’s not lost on him.


	9. If he stayed...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I cut this out of my fic **[Their time would come](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SecretSanta_2019/works/21885133)** as it didn’t fit canon. It’s just a short little scene. (Maybe this could have happened, if he stayed…)

Scully was tired. Exhausted. The baby was a week old and the Tuesday blues had well and truly set in.

She was sitting on her bed in nothing but sweat pants and a nursing bra, trying to breastfeed, with cracked nipples and an equally cracked resolve. And crying. Not even trying to hide it. She didn’t have one ounce of spare energy to bother with such masks.

Over William’s cries, she heard the door to her apartment. Their apartment actually, a unanimous vote that it was more suitable to this new little family than his mahogany den.

“Scully?”

“Bedroom.” She called out, her state of emotion thick in her voice.

He breezed in the door carrying a shopping bag from the drug store, saw her and quickly put the bag down, moving over to the bed.

“Oh, sweetheart, what’s wrong?” 

Scully’s face crumpled as words began to tumble out of her mouth. “He’s hungry and he won’t eat and he won’t sleep and all he does is cry and … and … and I have no clean shirts left, and it hurts when I pee, and it feels like my breasts are going to burst and … and I’m so tired I think I might vomit.” She finished, a sob taking over.

“Aw, Scully,” he said in an affection chuckle. “What do you need?”

She whimpered, looked up at him, her bottom lip quivering. “You,” is all she could manage. Her sobbing ceased but the tears continued.

“Ok,” he smiled gently at her, “scoot forward.”

He motioned for her to move forward, off the headboard. Which she did with some difficulty, given the ache from her bruising below. That, and she had her arms full of a grumbly William.

Mulder, somewhat ungracefully, got up on the bed and slotted himself behind her, a leg either side of her body. He pulled her back onto his torso and wrapped his arms around her.

He reached around Scully and cradled his son on one of his forearms, while his other hand went to Scully’s bare breast. He cupped her, two fingers, one either side of her nipple. He had watched her and was doing his best to mimic what he had seen her do. He gently held the back of William’s head and drew him into his mother’s breast. After a few tries, the baby latched on and Scully let out a small grimaced noise, looked down and breathed a sigh of relief.

She leaned herself back just enough so that she could see Mulder’s face. She smiled with exhaustion and adoration, placed a relieved peck on his jaw. “Thank you” she breathed, almost inaudibly.

“Put your head back,” he said, removing his hand from her breast and stroking her forehead.

She did, the back of her head resting just between his neck and shoulder.

“Let him go, I’ve got him.”

“Thank you.” She said again, as she lost her grip on the baby, relaxed her body and lolled her head, allowing her eyes to close. She turned her face, her lips landing on his neck. She kissed him again. Left her lips resting there.

“Sleep Love, I’ve got you. Both of you.” He said, as her breathing began to slow and even out.

And he did. He had them both.


	10. Dearest Dana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I got this ‘Ask’ from Anon on Tumblr: What if that "Dearest Dana" was some sort of code or an anagram? Like: A Dad Nearest, Data Endears :)
> 
> My reply: Thank you for the ask, Lovely Anon. I love it! Yes, some sort of code. I thought about it overnight and felt compelled to answer with this short fic. I hope you like it. 

Scully’s breath hitched and she felt her heart stop before pounding, double-time, to make it up.

She instinctively cast her eyes around the busy internet café, glancing down at William beside her in his stroller, before leaning into the screen and hurriedly scanning the rest of the words. It was short and somewhat sweet, and if not for the salutation, she might have clung to each and every word. She would have printed it out and treasured it as if it were the greatest of love letters. The cheap inkjet ink would have been no match for her tears though; each subsequent reading blurring his words as far into obscurity as he had felt these last, long months. 

_Dearest Dana. Dearest Dana. Dearest Dana._

It was time. 

She looked at her watch. Checked again the date and time the email was sent. Bit her lip. Months of bottled up fear and uncertainly and sorrow and pain were too much for a couple of teeth pressed into soft flesh to suppress. And she sobbed. Loud and uncontrollably. People were staring, and she knew it. William knew something was up too and began to howl; trying to outdo his mother. She shut the computer down and wiped her face and ignored a kind woman asking if she was ok and haphazardly pushed her way out the door.  
  
It was time.

She drove and drove and drove. Stopping for gas and to change the baby and for and snacks, her churned gut wouldn’t allow her to eat.

It was the morning he left. A kiss not long enough, a goodbye not significant enough, any words utterly useless to say what she wanted to say. He’d pushed something into her palm, tore himself from her lips, and clicked the door as waves of another new awful reality crashed over her, crushing her heart. It was 25 minutes before she looked at what she had, crumpled in her hand.

_Scully, _   
_I will see you and William again. Our first kiss. Parking lot. 9pm. Two days after or eight days after, my Dearest Dana. _   
_Burn this. _   
_I love you - M._

It was hope. A hope that she survived by. Keeping the smallest light in the darkest room aflame. 

And now it was time. 

  
She could just make it - two days since he sent the email (not having to wait another week). Only because she had a go-bag for herself and William in her trunk. _Always._ A single letter, an ‘x’, texted to Frohike and he knew to feed the fish. Get word to Skinner that she was okay.

She pulled into the parking lot, found a spot obscured from the streetlamps. The last time she was there she was helping an injured Mulder into a car. Her lips still tingling. It was the early hours of the first day, of the last year of the previous millennium, (always a math geek).

She had been there less than two minutes and the passenger door opened. Time slowed down as a dark clothed figure began to lower down into the seat beside her. It only occurred to her then, with William slumbering in the back, that it could be a trap. She couldn’t see his face. She put her hand to the glove box, ready to reach for her gun, and then … a familiar voice.

“Hi, Scully.” 

_His_ voice. 

_Him_.

His beautiful face. He looked older. More lines and a little salt in his pepper coloured hair. 

“Did ya’ miss …”

His throat hitched, his face, and hers, a mess with tears as Scully kissed any other words from his mouth.

They held on. Held onto to one another’s jaws and napes and cheeks as they kissed across the console. A kiss hello. A magnificent manifestation of their love. Of their heartache. A kiss to communicate their untold story, their missing time, their agony apart. Raw, open wounds already beginning to heal. Licking and sucking and lapping, they fought to stay connected through sobs and tears and moisture until finally, they stopped. Broke apart for a moment as if Mulder had remembered something. He turned, looked over in the back seat and sighed. Came back to her, still holding her face, he pressed his forehead to hers. “We have to go,” he told her.

She silently twisted back into her seat, fumbled for the key, still in the ignition, he for the seat belt; neither of them tearing their eyes from the other. 

She didn’t ask where. 

It didn’t matter.


	11. No capers, thank you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A prompt from the lovely [Admiralty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/admiralty)  
  
**Where exactly does Mulder’s distaste for capers originate????**

Mulder liked to catalogue. He was good at it. It was his thing. 

It began after his sister was taken. His twelve year-old self tried hard to be on alert. In case they came back for him. Or perhaps, in case he noticed something that would somehow solved the mystery and help him find her. 

That stayed with him of course.

He would experience something and hang onto it; a place, a memory, a scent, a gesture, a sound.

Later, his ability to draw on these things, find parallels, make conclusions, was what set him apart. In Mulder, it was referred to as instinct, and earned him the title of one of the best profilers the Bureau had ever seen.

One of the personal downfalls of his aptitude was that his mind would dance, for every sense or encounter, however seemly small; firing for him to make a connection. To find a meaning, perhaps where there was none. Sleep was elusive when your normal state of being was to obsess. 

...

They were in a forgettable diner for one of their perfunctory dinners. So entwined they were by now, they would start one meal, then swap half way through, to finish off the other. They knew each other’s tastes, dislikes. One could head to the bathroom safe in the knowledge the other would order two meals they both would enjoy.

Until now. 

“Capers?” He screwed up his nose and made a mmm mmm ‘no’ sound and shook his head, swapping the plates. “You start on this one Scully, and don’t save me any capers, ok?”

“Ok”, she said. Stabbing her new meal with a fork once it was settled in front of her.

“I never knew you didn’t like them”, she said, almost to herself as she loaded her fork with a spiral of spaghetti, crab and the offending salty delicacy.

She didn’t ask him why he didn't like them, because most people didn't have a more interesting reason than they just never had. And she was sure the case they were working on was a more interesting conversation.

She was wrong though. There was a little story behind Mulder’s dislike for the little caper bud.

...

It’s not unusual to remember the scent of a perfume, years after smelling it on a person. A wonderful or quite disagreeable or melancholy feeling can swim in the air of the very aroma that stirred it. 

Smell is the sense most strongly tied to memory. Taste, second. Combining those, well. He’d just rather steer clear of the little flower buds of the Capparis spinosa.

...

Mulder had a difficult time trusting people. It wasn’t always that way, as is usually the case. Too much trust, for too long, in the wrong person or persons, can do that to someone. 

She was his first love. The first person to hold him in her line of attention in so, so long. Not that he blamed his parents. He really didn’t. He first foray into the studies of psychology confirmed, that most of the time, people were just doing the very best they could.

Her name was Phoebe and she had a command over him that he got lost in. He would get lost in their long sessions of love making too. If you could call it that. Retrospectively, that is not how Mulder would describe it now. At all. But at the time, he was all in, and at the time, he couldn’t get enough of Phoebe Green. Of her power over him, of her body, of her taste. 

...

Mulder once feel asleep with his head in Scully’s lap. His mother had just died, and he was having a god-awful time of it. She stroked his hair and kissed the side of his face. And he took advantage, rolled into her and buried his face into her groin. 

She smelled of sunshine and ocean spray. Of the treasures collected from the shores of his childhood. Of comfort and rapture. She was intoxicating. The scent of home. 

...

It wasn’t until months after he’d return to the States, at dinner with his mother, that he tasted her again. Phoebe. And he froze. Actually, he spat out his dinner. Much to the chagrin of his mother.

And he has never eaten a caper since.

...

Mulder looked across the table, watched her suck a strand of wayward spaghetti between her plump crimson lips. He wondered then, just how much longer he would have to wait, until he had a taste to add to the smell, in his catalogue of Scully.


	12. Pinkie Fingers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Hey ! I have a prompt for you: Mulder and Scully Holding hands. Their pinkie fingers start to touch and then they slowly hold hands, but nothing transpires on their faces :D

They didn’t always sit next to one another in FBI briefings. Early on, it was purely dependant on when each of them happened arrived. Scully was usually prompt. Mulder, on the other hand, often dawdled in late. Had decided his time was more purposefully spent with his head in a coveted X-File, than being a tag-along on someone else’s detail. When it would transpire that they arrived from the basement office together, they would sit next to one another. Or stand, along the back wall; leaning in and whispering this or that. Of late though, Scully tried to arrive at these particular types of meetings alone, so that they might not sit side by side. Then, when Mulder would turn up and see her surrounded, with no room for him to get close, she would admonish herself that she had allowed hallway gossip influence her behaviour. 

This particular briefing, he was already there when she appeared. She had dropped something off at the lab in an effort to stagger their entrances. However, there was standing room only but for a seat beside him. She doubted he saved it for her per se. The numerous agents in the crowded office had done so, she guessed, by assuming that he had been, and therefore avoided sitting in it.

Giving Mulder a nod when he glanced across at her, she made her way to him, offering a few agents a terse smile on her way past. Thought she heard _Mrs Spooky_ under an unidentified breath. She slid into the seat beside him, legs neatly tucked under a shared desk. The room was packed, their chairs close.

Once Skinner introduced the case, they were all there to help solve, Scully was thankful to be right beside Mulder. And she immediately sensed that the usual sideways glances they had perfected avoiding, were perfectly avoiding them. 

A twelve-year-old boy was babysitting his younger sister when she had been kidnapped from right in front of him. The fourth such disappearance of a child they had linked to the same case, though this last abduction was the first with a front seat witness. 

As Skinner continued, from three inches beside her, Scully sensed Mulder’s body tense. Her peripheral vision homed into him—having learned not to get caught staring at him. Which was at times her want to do. She saw him, felt him, heard him roughly rubbing his palms along the tops of his thighs under the table. A cursory glance around the room confirmed that everyone there was looking anywhere but at him. Them. 

_ “The boy is of course traumatised, and we have to be sensitive when questioning him….” _

Scully dropped her hand to sit beside her thigh on her seat. Close to Mulder’s hand, that remained on his leg. 

Skinner went on—possible suspects, motive, chances of finding the young victims still alive. 

Mulder shifted. Grabbed the sides of his chair to do so. And there his hand remained, beside Scully’s on the edge of his seat; a ghost of a touch. _ Purposefully? _ Maybe.

_ “… It goes without saying he is not, but no doubt, the child feels responsible.” _

Scully felt Mulder wind-up and tighten. She watched Skinner command the room. Pace along the front, holding attention, and she did not look at Mulder. Dared not. Holding her breath, she slowly separated her pinkie finger from its counterparts until it encountered his, still gripping the chair. She gently tickled along the side of his hand, his curled pinkie. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t jerk his hand away, or look at her, or make any movement at all. His hand stayed there. Accepted the gesture.

Their attention remained on Skinner, who continued to describe the scene.

Scully hurt for him, and bolder now, through concern, through care --_ love _, she caressed along the back of his hand; the tops of his fingers with the tips of hers. He stayed—his white knuckles relaxing under her touch.

_ “…the First Attending mentioned that he thought the kid was in shock, wasn’t making much sense. He recalled a bright light…” _

Scully heard Mulder swallow. The constricting of his larynx fighting to gulp back buried emotions threatening to make their way to his surface she imagined. Her throat compressed—such was their acute synchronicity. But he began to pull away. To retrieve his hand from hers, so she grabbed on. Held him and dragged, placed his palm over her thigh. And he halted. Let her rub the back of his hand again, with her delicate affirming touch. His palm relaxed over her leg; he ever so slightly squeezed her as he let out a breath. 

At Skinner’s instruction, someone hit the lights. Pictures slid across the AV screen in the dim room. Quite but for the rhythmic clicking of the projector changing forensic images. 

Cloaked in the false safety of shadows, an anonymous voice ventured to murmur: _aliens. _Another, barely muffled, a reply of a snigger. Then a whispered riff, from somewhere deep in the back, of The Twilight Zone theme. Skinner aggressively shushed the room, and Scully felt Mulder move his hand again; he was slipping from her.

She tried to cling on, and he wriggled his hand free, only to twist it over—palm to palm. He hung on to her as she pushed her fingers between his, and he did the same in return. Her breath quickened. 

Roles were assigned. Scully there for pathology, if and when it arose. Mulder an extra body in the field. Skinner didn’t meet Mulder’s eyes when he announced that. Scully knew Mulder would feel self-conscious - would conclude that he was only there as her partner, so they could garner her expertise. That he would struggle with this case matter anyway, on top of knowing Skinner had overlooked his profiling skills. 

Scully perceived Skinner was disregarding Mulder’s abilities to protect him. And she was grateful. Her fear, though, that if the case wasn’t solved quickly, that if it dragged on, Mulder would be necessary. That Skinner would feel he had no choice but to use him. Maybe use him up.

They remained side by side, hands in an embrace, their faces engaged in front, belying the intimacy below.

As the briefing was being wrapped up, Scully rubbed her thumb along his palm, their fingers still clasped. She traced his Love Line. She was surprisingly well versed in palm reading, her small one being Melissa’s practising ground for years. She rubbed gently, over and over, from below his thumb, to his Mount of Jupiter, just below his forefinger. 

It read that he had an abundance of love and grand dreams.

She didn’t need a line on his hand to tell her that.

The room stood and began to clear. They let go of one another and joined the file out of the room, Scully in front. Mulder’s palm connected with her again, firmly at her lower back.

From then on, they always saved each other a seat. And they always kept their hands hidden, under the desk.


	13. A Kiss Goodnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prompt from Anon on Tumblr - Mulder kissing Scully during her sleep. He did it once and now he can't help kissing her again every time she falls asleep. They are not involved yet ;)

The first time he did it, he didn’t think until he was gently pulling back from her.

The second time, he thought of the first. Gave himself permission.

He doesn’t particularly remember which was the third. Or how many times since. It was just something that he did. Like his hand to her lower back, it felt right.

That first time they were on a red-eye after a case, heading home. Scully exhausted - back to back autopsies and chasing the darkness their job demanded. The over-heads were out, her lamp off, her head now heavy on his shoulder. Without disturbing her, he awkwardly pulled the blanket up that had threatened to slip off her knee.

Scully could sleep anywhere. That’s how Mulder saw it. His place of rest - a worn-out leather couch. (Lying awake in a bed felt too much like failure.) Her breath would change. Her pouty lips would pout just a little more; part to allow her slumbering breath to come and go in gentle calming puffs.

He twisted his neck towards her and leaned back enough so he could focus on her face. From his perspective, her forehead, the slope down her beautiful aquiline nose, her lashes fanned out across her freckled cheeks; make-up long smudged away.

An overwhelming affection spread across his chest. Settled in his heart. He loved her. Sometimes didn’t know where he ended, and she began. At the same time, she felt as far away as the horizon. Sure as the sea and the tides. Sail and sail and sail, and she would remain, strong and real and true - but as elusive as a rainbow’s end. Extraordinary and beautiful, with a distance promise of hope.

An inch. That was all he had to move, just a tiny adjustment to the angle of his neck, and his lips were on her forehead. Her skin was cool and smooth, and he could feel the lazy rise and fall of sleep. He stayed there, let his eyes sink closed, and his heart swell.

Kisses on aeroplanes, in private hospital rooms - badge flashed to enter in the night long after visiting hours, couches on movie nights that ran late, Shiner Bock in the blood. And his lips would find the curve of her skull, over her frontal lobe - choices, judgement, impulse control; the mysteries of Scully, beneath.

Those ‘goodnight’ kisses during her cancer treatment were paired with a sweet, sickly smell that seemed to seep from her pores. Her brow often under a film of poisonous sweat. A fleeting, childish hope would flash - that he could heal her, will her back to health from the mere contact of his loving lips pressed to her skin. Pressed so, so close to that which was inside, killing her.

This night, for the first time, they kissed on the lips. Scully, having familiarly fallen asleep on his couch midconversation earlier that evening, was awake. Wide awake and crouched by his bed. Without words, she leaned in and kissed him. A dream? A miracle? His pot of gold.

Then they made love. Playful, but reverent. Passionate and tender. 

In the afterglow their limbs entwined, naked bodies pressed close, and their fingers brushed up and down dewy, trembling skin. They curled around one another, nestling in for a sleep embraced, and they kissed once again. Lingering and loving.

As he settled back on his pillow, happier than he had ever thought possible, she rested her chin to his chest and asked him, “aren’t you going to kiss me goodnight?” Her eyes twinkled in the blue light of the moon.

“Didn’t we just…?” he began, confused.

“No,” she replied, her head slightly moving side to side. “Here,” she instructed, a playful smile dancing at the corners of her mouth as she tapped _his_ spot on her forehead, cocked a knowing brow.

Realisation struck him, and the muscles in his jaw let go - his mouth agape. Hers with a grin now fully established. He bit a matching smile from his face, his lower lip between his teeth, and studied her. Then he smirked and nodded and did as requested, settling his lips to her forehead. Kissing her there. _Goodnight._ She took a deep breath while his kiss endured. Let out a satisfied hum before sinking into the nook between his torso and arm, the side of her face to his chest. She sighed heavily and closed her eyes.

Once he’d felt sleep creep in and take her, he touched his lips once again to that place. Marvelled how he’d lost count of how many times he’d kissed her that way. He wondered now if there might ever be a day when the tally of their lovemaking would elude him too. He hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Anon for your lovely message and prompt. 
> 
> Thank you for reading. 
> 
> Comments always welcome. x


	14. The Darkest Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prompt from the lovely [Baroness_Blixen](https://www.archiveofourown.org/users/Baroness_Blixen)
> 
> “I shouldn’t be in love with you.”

Being an FBI Agent was not an easy job. It was physically demanding, and agents frequently put their lives on the line. Danger and the unknown were a part of the package. Never knowing what the next case would entail, where it would be, or how long their normal existence would be put on hold for. If they even had a normal existence.

It could be emotionally taxing too. That part was possibly the lesser-known aspect. The lesser talked about at least. After particularly atrocious cases, counselling was offered, sometimes required. The need for that service and the number of times it was offered did not match up. Not by a long shot. So, agents would frequently have to figure out how to deal with that part privately.

Agent Fox Mulder would run, put on his trainers and run; away from the figurative monsters. When the darkness would threaten to invade the corners of his counterpart, Agent Dana Scully's mind, she would fill it with new information. Research and write dissertations. Push the horrors away, leaving no space in which they could haunt her.

Sometimes, those practices were enough.

Sometimes the shadows were harder to shake.

At times these two agents would find solace in the bottom of mini-bar bottles. Scully, the occasional cigarette, a throwback from med school; ironically, the student doctors and nurses, on average, bigger smokers than the rest of the university student body.

On a couple of very rare occasions, they had found the escape in one another. Three occasions before, to be exact. Each time was fast and heated and not a word was spoken. They left each other quickly after. Slept alone in their own hotel beds. Never spoke of it.

The last time had been a few months prior.

…

It was late. Past 11 when Scully exited her room in her robe, in search of a cigarette machine. They had been called to a small town, by the local authorities, to help with a case of murdered children. A few days after each child went missing, an image of them would appear, burned into a different tree in the local cemetery. Within 12 hours, the child would be found. Dead.

Mulder hadn't spoken a word in the car ride back to the hotel after the latest victim turned up deceased too. Their first since they had been assigned the case. A misplaced responsibility had begun to invade him, and he was beginning to disappear into his profiler's mind. Scully equally as quiet, having only hours before completed an autopsy on the victim.

They were staying in a motor inn. Had been there three days already. Their rooms side by side, six rooms in their section of the accommodation, all opening onto a shared porch with stairs at the end down to reception and parking area. She looked at Mulder's door as she walked past - fresh packet of Morleys in hand. She was worried about him, but also knew that he had a process and she probably just needed to leave him alone. Besides, she was battling her own demons tonight. Autopsying children was some kind of seventh hell she would never get used to.

Scully was thankful her room was the last door at the opposite end of the porch to the stairs, and that the light outside her room was broken. She tucked herself into the darkness and lent over the rail, raising a freshly acquired cigarette to her lips. She sighed as she dug into her robe pocket for her lighter. She had the heavy, awful feeling of having somehow fucked up today. She knew Mulder carried that cross, but she felt it too, as entwined as they were. She couldn't put her finger on where or how, so admonishing herself was proving a chore.

Fighting against the useless emotions, she flicked the flint once under her thumb, lighting her features orange against the dark. The tip of the paper crackled and blazed hot-red for a second, as she sucked air into her lungs through the fresh-tasting tobacco. Held the smoky haze inside and willed herself to breathe out the god-awful day along with the cloud of toxic smoke. She closed her eyes.

She loved the smell of cigarette packets. It reminded her of that tiniest piece of herself, that belonged only to her. A first glimpse of that Dana when she snuck her mother's cigarettes as a teenager. A decision made wholly by herself. And again, in college when she would freely smoke in bars. No judgemental parents or one particular older sibling, around to try and mould her. She didn't know and didn't care if it was that_ feeling_ she chased or the relaxing drug when she had a rare cigarette. Either way, it worked.

She made a plan to smoke two, though she'd already showered, run a bath (uncommon in FBI afforded motor inns, and she was going to take advantage of it), attempt to masturbate, and let that push her into sleep. Maybe a small bottle of bourbon from the mini-bar if she needed it. As she was concocting her poorly drawn up psychological remedy, she heard the door to Mulder's room open. He stepped out with purpose, a tumbler of ice and amber liquid clinking in his hand. He moved over to the rail and went to rest his elbows there. He glanced over towards her door, but his eyes landed on her first, looking over at him.

They'd done this dance enough times before that she didn't even bother to try and hide her cigarette or look guilty about it. He understood that she wasn't addicted and that it was a very rare occurrence that she had granted herself absolution from, so why shouldn't he. And quite frankly it thrilled him slightly to be offered evidence that his partner was not, in fact, perfect.

They shared a look. The same look that told of the horror of the day and the difficulty they were both having ending it. Even though the sun had decided the day was over hours ago, and in less than an hour, the clock would turn things over to tomorrow. Their minds had no such luxury. No such kill switch.

He walked into her shadowy corner. A small glow from her cigarette afforded him the sight of her. A raw, wildness he'd seen a few times before, and currently felt coursing through his own veins. A murky darkness that had attached itself to them both on this case. He held two fingers out in front of him, and she handed him her cigarette, took the offered glass from his hand. They turned, faced the road beyond a line of trees. He took a puff, and she put the glass to her lips, looked across at him and took a gulp. She screwed up her face and held the drink for him to take back. They swapped again before consuming their proffered release of choice. They stood. Quietly. So close their arms were pressed together.

He gently pushed himself into her. Nudged her. A silent question as to her state of being.

She shook her head. Swiped her cheek on her shoulder, removing the silent tears that she only then became aware of. Not sure when they started.

He noticed.

"Hey, hey, hey…" He cooed gently at her as he put his now empty glass down on the handrail. He moved behind her, engulfing her in a hug, his head resting in the crook of her neck. She breathed deeply and let her head fall back between his head and shoulder. They breathed there together in sync. Slow and deep. Blinking languidly. She took another drag and then held it for him to do the same. His lips touched her fingers as he sucked back on the orange filter. He breathed out the smoke as she studied the last of the cigarette in her fingers, taking one last draw and dropping the butt into his glass.

His lips found the soft place where her shoulder becomes her neck. Lightly rested them there. Breathed hot air onto her smooth, soft, skin.

"Today was fucking awful," he said in an undertone, allowing his lips to kiss her. His tongue to quietly taste her. She let her eyes close, and his voice sink into her skin like a salve, soothing a little of the day's callus from her.

She bit her lip, an almost undetectable nod propelled her head to turn to him. He lifted; their faces so close. She slowly inched closer still. Hovered her lips over his mouth. Let her jaw fall open and her lips part. Her tongue slipped out, quickly swept along his bottom lip. His mouth open to the sensation as his lips met hers and his tongue pushed into her hot mouth. Their tongues swirled inside, meeting there and tasting the smoky tar and sweet liquor. His hand moved to the back of her head to hold her as they kissed. Finding their way from the place where this all felt so wrong to where it all felt so fucking right. Her hand fell to his cheek, and they gripped one another. Held onto each other and onto the kiss. Their faces tilted and their connection deepened. Lips and tongues and whimpers. Licking and lapping and tasting.

He was still leaning over her, head turned in, her back flush against the front of him, neck craned to meet his face. His hips bent into her at the same angle as hers bent forward, his groin cupping her arse. She arched her lower back. Pressed herself into his rapidly firming cock. She moaned, and he understood.

He broke their kiss, glanced around the dark, deserted motor inn. The front office light across the parking lot was off, and the road beyond the trees was quiet. They were all but obscured by darkness at the end of the porch. Their own alternate reality existing only between them, in the opaque blackness of the spaces between words. Between conversations and tailored suits. Between raised guns and wounded flesh. Their own private indentation in the fabric of the universe. A nook in which to hide and find one another.

He moved his hand up under her robe and found the waistband of her pyjamas, pulled them down, grabbing her underwear as his finger brushed over them too. She leaned her torso on the handrail. Lifted her feet one by one to allow her clothing to pool underneath her. She moved a hand behind her and found his hip, affirmed him as he bounced his cock over the top of his boxers. He held himself in one hand and dragged his other, from just under her knee, where her robe fell, up her leg, trailed along her satin skin, up the inside of her thigh, found her moist and slippery.

"Oh god," was spoken. She blinked, a slight flinch. Not at his touch. She was aching for him to fill her. At his voice. The three other times they had done this, it had been fast and feverish, and they had not uttered a single syllable. Not even after. It was in the dark and clothed; a secret without words, a dream place she could visit, but pretend didn't actually exist.

Words made it more tangible, and Scully didn't want to think about how she felt about this. About him. Scully didn't ever really want to think about how she felt about anything. Her modus operandi; to pragmatically plough ahead. Work. And if there was a lack of casework, she would create it and write a paper. Didn't think about her feelings towards her attractive partner. Work. Eat. Sleep. Occasionally call her mother, brothers. She would care for Mulder, physically, but by fuck didn't want to complicate things by loving him … didn't want to complicate things by admitting that, in fact, she already did love him … didn't want to complicated things by having to admit she had actually already fucked him, after a few particularly heinous cases. And then masturbated to those memories almost nightly since.

She squeezed her eyes closed and opened her legs. Parted them as his fingers ran deftly between her folds, smearing her arousal over her. She might have spoken herself then, had she not, at that exact moment, felt him push up into her. Holding both her hips in his large, elegant hands, pulling her down.

She held the rail, and he held her. Began to pump. Pushed and pulled himself into and out of her. She was wet but tight. Not yet loosened to his size, but the pain was exquisite. She felt the day fall off her with every pulse of his cock inside her. With every puff of his hot affirming breath in her hair. With every erotic grunt from his exertions.

"Fuck Scully..," he panted into her ear, "…god you feel amazing."

She turned and kissed him. Kissed the words out of his mouth.

"Mulder, don't talk. Please."

"I think about this all the time, Scully" he rocked harder into her, "about you … _us._"

She stole another kiss from him, tried to halt any more words that might come out of his mouth. They don't talk while they do this. Don't talk about this. This is that snuck cigarette, that slug of bourbon, Mulder running 'til his lungs burned, a long bath and self-gratification. This was a secret, a release, not a conversation. Ever.

"You shouldn't talk." She managed. Trying to stay within her world of escape.

She squeezed her eyes shut, tried to speed up his thrusts with her own hip movements. But he slowed.

She opened her eyes, turned and looked. Found him there looking back at her. Mulder. Just Mulder. Not angst-ridden, not hiding or trying to disappear into her. Just him.

"I shouldn't talk…" He said. Rhetorically she discovered as one of his hands pushed its way up under her clothes, found her breast. "And I shouldn't be in love with you either," he growled into her ear, punctuating his words with sharp pinches to her nipple. "But there you have it."

She was shaking her head.

"No, Mulder." She turned, hung onto the rail again. Squeezed her own hand over his on her breast. "Please just fuck me. Make it go away. Take this awful day away."

He stopped talking. Sped up. Moved his fingers around to find her clit. Began to delicately tease her there; a juxtaposition to the ferocity with which he was now shoving his cock into her. Pumping, slamming himself into her as she moaned. She threw her head back onto his shoulder.

He pulled her onto him, grabbing her flush against him. His hand roughly at her breast, his other circling and rubbing. She moved an arm up over her head, gripped around his neck, face turned to him. She held the rail with her other hand as her body bumped with the pounding of his hips to her arse. Over and again. She was on the edge, the swell of his cock throbbing inside of her told he was right there beside her. Their lips crashed onto one another's. Stole the sounds that threatened to spill into the black night. Filling each other with their mutual ecstasy. They rode it out as one. Pulsing, and heaving, liquid bodies melding together. Hot arousal spilling into her and out of her.

He held her tight, slowing pumping his semi-hard cock up into her slippery cunt; the remnants of her rapture vibrating through her.

He withdrew and pulled his T-shirt over his head and balled it up. She turned her head back to watch him, her hands still steady on the rail. He ran the shirt up her thigh, gently wiped between her legs; swollen and dripping, down the other leg. Swiped away their combination of desire. Of release.

He kissed the back of her neck.

"I meant it." He said as he ran a hand affectionately over her hair. Kissed her lips. Pressed his mouth to hers, probably too hard, their lips pushed back against their chins. "…every word."

He straightened up. Stood and walked back towards his room. Left her there with his words remaining in the air between them. She not ready to absorb them. Wanting to stay in the place in between. An abstraction of the truth he just offered her.

She continued to look at him as he lingered at his door. He opened his mouth to speak…

"I'll wait … as long as it takes." He looked at her in case she had something to say.

Nothing.

He turned and went inside. All but closed the door behind him. No click. No lock.

She idled in the parallel. The unspoken space ripped from her without permission. Breathed in deep. Closed her eyes against the soft glow from the light of Mulder's outdoor light.

She bent, scooped up her pyjamas from the wood beneath her feet. Scrunched the delicate material and shoved it into one of her pockets. Poked her hand into the other and retrieved the packet. She flipped the top, slid a fresh cigarette from its place nestled amongst the others, that may all be consumed during this case. As was not usually the event, normally the pain and emotions required a few before the packet would be discarded, almost entirely full, into the hotel trash on the way to check out.

She put it to her lips and flicked the lighter, twice before the glow of the flame lit up her face. She held it out in front of the tip. Paused and turned back towards Mulder's door. Ajar. Hesitated. Her thumb let go, and the flame died. She clung for a moment. Tried to hang onto the unattached release for a spell.

Then she decided.

Tucked the items back into her robe and walked across to his door.

She went inside.


	15. A Brief French AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I received this prompt on Tumblr: Hellooo ! I have an AU prompt for you: 19's century in Paris. Mulder is an artist and chooses Scully as his model :)
> 
> I replied - This is such a wonderful idea for an au. I feel quite inadequate to do it justice, but thank you so much for sending it to me. Here is something. An invitation for what might come next... Or another writer may wish to write this prompt, or pick up where mine leaves off... 💕

All he painted was her. Agonised to get her right. Just _so_. The way he remembered her. It had been many months since he last saw his sister—the long bitter winter providing influenza the chance to steal her from him.

Some five years prior, young Monsieur Mulder and his little sister Samantha, lived with their parents in the caretaker’s cottage of a rambling estate, just outside of Paris. After their mother and father both tragically perished, in a terrible fire, the Master of the house had taken responsibility for the children.

A gruff, but ultimately kindly man, Marquis Skinner, an avid art collector, had recognised artistic talent in the teenaged boy, and choose to foster it. Providing art classes for him and embroidery and piano lessons for Samantha.

Before she passed, Samantha had been preparing to make her debut into society, and Monsieur Mulder had been working as a portrait artist. He had begun to make a name for himself, having secured and completed various commissions.

Then everything changed. Months on end he’d spent in the stable loft, his makeshift studio, that he had also begun to use as his sleeping quarters; only entering the main house for meals.

Burying himself in his craft, it had become his obsession. He was fixated; colours and contours and shadows and he couldn’t find her. It wasn’t enough. He needed to capture her, find the truth of her. _Her essence_, he had told the Master, but she continued to elude him. He was painting her from memory, and a juvenile portrait he had done of her during his studies. She was a terrible subject; would not sit still.

“Monsieur Mulder, Maquis Skinner, would like to see you in the drawing-room,” a young servant had told him, fetched him from the barn.

“Mulder, son. I miss her too. But you cannot keep doing this to yourself. You simply must paint again,” the older man implored. “A fresh face, please. You have to try.”

The young man, as tall as his elder, though around fifteen years his junior, hung his head and picked at a nail.

“Listen—” Skinner continued, stepping close and placing an affectionate palm on Mulder’s shoulder. “—I told my good friend, a Colonel William Scully, that I had a very talented artist in the family.” Mulder lifted his head and met Skinner's eyes, something flushing in his chest at being referred to as his family. Something he considered had entirely disappeared with the winter snow and the lowering of his sister’s cask to the cold earth.

“He wishes for a portrait to be commissioned of his youngest daughter. She is not yet married, and the painting is to be shipped to a foreign suitor.”

“Pardon me for saying so Marquis, can they not just take a photograph of her?”

Skinner smiled, “they paid a large sum for a photograph, I was told; however, the mademoiselle did not like it. Said it did not capture the essence of her,” he grinned. “You must at least try Fox. Please, for me. He is a dear friend.”

“Yes, of course, I will. For you.”

“Wonderful. Gather your things. I have arranged for the coach to take you there this very day. You may stay in the servants quarters whilst you complete the painting.”

~

Afternoon light diffused through the flecks of dust, dancing and swirling and bouncing off her carmine locks. Nowhere had he seen hair that colour, or lips—hues that should have clashed, though perfectly complemented her porcelain skin, adorned with little sun kisses. Telling him that she must have been a child, a little girl, who liked to play outdoors. He had a flash of a wild thing, escaping sewing classes in favour of adventure.

“So, you didn’t like the photograph of yourself?” Mulder asked mademoiselle Dana, as she had not said much more than bonjour when they had met. He had asked to see the room and to test where she might sit, or stand, and he would begin the following day.

“I didn’t think anything of it, especially,” she told him, with an air of disinterest.

“Then why am I here? The photograph could be in the hands of your suitor this very moment.”

“I have no intention of marrying a Russian Baron I have never laid eyes on.”

Mulder, who had been sizing up the room and roughly sketching on some notepaper, looked up at her, paid attention. There was a glint in her eye. “So, if you could please paint me with two heads,” she requested, one of her brows arching spectacularly, “—Baron Alexander Krycek may find me displeasing, and look elsewhere.” The corners of her mouth twitched up.

“So, you want to marry for love?” he ventured, thinking he understood a little, aware Maquis Skinner had thoughts of the new caretaker’s daughter, Diana, as a good match for him, though he no interest in her.

“No,” she objected.

“No? What do you intend to do?”

“I intend to go against my father's wishes and attended university like my younger brother. And become a doctor.”

Mulder studied her and smiled for the very first time since his sister had died. A fantastic interest in this woman, this _subject_, began to bloom.


	16. Nasal Tip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From this prompt - Hello ! I have a prompt for you: Mulder touching Scully's nose ^^

Ninety-nine per cent of Mulder, like all other homo sapiens, was made of just four elements. Though Mulder may argue differently, they were not earth, air, water and fire. Those elements, chemical; hydrogen, oxygen, carbon and nitrogen. That was the lens through which Scully viewed the world. Science, her baseline. Observing a human body, superimposed under her dog-eared Gray’s Anatomy.

Sacrospinalis. Comfortable under his palm. Would morph him into her ruder so that he might steer her places; into an elevator, through a doorway, to a private corner of a room — all with an aura of possession. Occasionally his fingers might dip to the top of her gluteus maximus.

On a case, early on in their partnership, he had swiped some BBQ rib sauce from her oral commissure – the corner of her mouth. An intimate gesture that happened so quickly, all she had time to do was blush, and make an awkward comment about meat. And blush a little more. Outside they were mistaken for a couple, an innocent presumption that would be made many, many times more. She behaved affronted. Would often protest or correct the error. Over time she grew to ignore it, and would even miss it if it wasn’t assumed.

In a ubiquitous roadside diner, she was about to lick it away when he leaned over the table and swept the digital phalanx, of his index finger, across her nasal tip, removing the cappuccino foam. Then it was he who did the licking of said foam, from his fingertip into his mouth. Such an intimate gesture would have been a strange violation from anyone else. From him, welcomed. Warming her from the inside.

So much amassed evidence, forensic and circumstantial clues left just for investigator Special Agent Dana Scully, and still, she wondered what he thought of her.


	17. “What am I doing here, Mulder?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little drabble - 1000 odd words. Written fast. No beta. Teens and up.

Soft footfall and a creaky door preceded him into the morgue. Stretched out, prone on the slab—the surface scrubbed reflective—was Scully, staring up at nothing. Still. Quiet. Back in her suit.

“Scully?” he probed warily.

No reply. No outward acknowledgement of him when he entered the room; her essence eternally idling until he snapped back to her. 

He moved closer. “You okay?”

“What am I doing here, Mulder?” she said, to the ceiling really, asked—all but cutting him off.

Had she not very nearly died recently, very nearly ended up right where she lay—frigid and naked and drained of colour; blood and lymph pooling along her posterior—he would have quipped something about her being really early to her own ‘slicing and dicing’. So, he didn’t say anything; inched slowly closer and waited her out.

“I’m meticulous. I’m methodical. I’m not squeamish,” she continued to the cool-white paint above her. “I take impeccable, easily digestible notes. The lab love whatever I hand them. Usual speed it back; can’t be because of my charm. They appreciate the scientist in me.” 

“Scully?” he said again. This time the inflection noted a different question from before. Then, ‘what are you doing?’, now, ‘what are you saying?’

“I had lunch with Cleo today, one of the pathologists here. She was prepping for court. Wanted some advice on some notes she’s worried they’ll poke holes in. She’s being called to testify.”

Gradually, Scully sat up, swinging her legs heavy over the side of the table, gripping the edge; a hand white-knuckled either side of her thighs.

“Did she make an error? Will the guy get off?”

“No, not at all. Her work will likely put him away. For the rest of his life,” she looked at Mulder then, “where the son-of-a-bitch should be.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I could be that useful, Mulder.” Her eyes dropped from his, as she continued to explain, “this guy -- what he did to women. And _girls_. And Cleo helped link the bodies, carefully gathered the victims together. She did _amazing_ work.” Scully shook her head a little as if awestruck. “Amazing.”

“And you don’t feel useful?” 

“I don’t feel like I’m making a difference. Not really. What does what I do even mean? When does what I find ever put the guy away?”

“You can’t measure our work like that Scully?” he said gently, imploringly, willing her to look at him again.

He had shifted closer, the way they did; the tug between them as silent as the tides. He was so close his hip bumped her knee. She focused on the point of collision and ignored the fact that one of his hands had collected hers. The very thin veil, the boundary of ‘work colleagues’, that kept them separate entities, wearing thinner.

“I let the proof I seek allow me to get so smug with you sometimes, Mulder. But—” she squeezed his hand back. “—when has my science ever helped us actually solve a case?”

He moved. Stood in front of her and her knees slipped apart, guiding him in like a ship to harbour—his other hand to her chin, collecting her gaze.

“Scully, if you don’t want this anymore…” Mulder fixed her in his vision, surprised by the sincerity of his own words. He hoped his face projected calm, belying the feelings beginning to convene inside. “If you want to solve the cases, the ones that Cleo does. If … if that’s what you want—”

Bile at the back of his throat stirred, and a gut-wrenching heaviness balled in the pit of his stomach. He forgot how to breathe. Felt like the world had just tipped on its axis as if Atlas himself had lost his footing too.

He searched her face.

“I don’t know what I want,” she breathed. Whispered. “I guess I want to feel that what I do is making a difference. I want to know that I’m doing good.”

Tentative, he cupped her jaw in his palms. Their eyes darting back and forth between one another’s pupils; ensuring they didn’t miss even the tiniest of expressions. He held her there, sweeping his thumb over her smooth, cool skin.

“You’re doin’ better than good, Starbuck,” he told her. 

And then, for but a moment before the top of her head thumped to his chest, he saw moisture welling up and then ebb away down her cheeks.

Holding an arm around her shoulders, he stroked the back of her hair, while she took gulps of air, hid. One her hands roughly swiping at her face, the other steadying herself – pulling on the pocket of his jacket.

For Mulder, morgues at night were the quietest places on Earth, as if even a whisper might somehow be the correct incantation to raise the dead. He took a single breath, deeply, but silently, into his soul, concentrating on Scully’s warmth and sounds she was making. Waiting to look at her. Waiting to read her expression.

She tipped her face up to his, her hands pulling him in by the sides of his jacket.

He brushed the pad of his thumb across her cheek, spreading her tears over her pretty face, as relief spread through him.

He exhaled.

“Come one, let’s get you back to the hotel. It’s getting late. We can get pineapple on the pizza,” he offered and then pretended to gag. “And, I’ll let you win at chess again.”

He took her hand and pulled at her, and she slipped to the floor.

“_Let_ me win Mulder?” a grin creeping into her voice, hand still firmly in his.

“Sure, you’ve earned it Scully,” he teased.

“Don’t pretend for one second, Fox Mulder that I didn’t beat the pants off you last night.”

“Hmm,” he mused. “I don’t recall going to bed without my pants Scully, I think that I would have remembered that detail.” Trailing him, she playfully pushed him through the swinging doors. “Tell you what, let’s turn it into strip chess and maybe you’ll get to keep my king and my pants.”

Scully laughed, and the doors swung shut behind them.


End file.
